


Am I My Brother's Keeper?

by thequeergiraffe



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU, M/M, ace!charles, disabled!charles, dubcon, erik is not a nice person, erik's pov, no powers, set in the 60s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:19:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1987806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles grinned, then flicked a glance at the doorway before meeting Erik’s gaze again. He was still smiling, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, seemingly on the cusp of some monumental decision. Then he plunged into it. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, quickly, his voice edged with something dangerous and not just a little thrilling, and then his eyes jumped to the door and his posture immediately straightened, his tone dropping back into pleasant aloofness. “About what your father said, earlier. He’s absolutely right about those Beatles. They’re going to be a terrible influence on the boys at school.”</p><p>---</p><p>Erik Lehnsherr's father teaches at a prestigious boys' school in upstate New York, heading up the department in which Charles Xavier works. Through him, Erik develops a tumult of emotions for Charles: resentment, distrust, desire, rage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Some warnings: 
> 
> -Charles is asexual in this fic, but I should warn readers (particularly readers who are sensitive to the subject) that there is sex, and the consent wavers from a little bit dubious to extremely dubious bordering on non-con. Erik expresses some views on sexuality in general that are troubling, and in reference to Charles' asexuality he's often particularly nasty. If you've never read anything of mine before, I tend to write darker versions of characters, kind of testing the limits of how awful they can be, so I don't want to be misconstrued: in no way do I believe any of the things Erik is saying in this fic. His feelings =/= my feelings.
> 
> -I don't speak Hebrew, German, or French. I relied entirely on Google translate, so if you see a mistake please don't hesitate to let me know!
> 
> Some extra fic talk:
> 
> -I do have this story planned out entirely, so while it's a WiP it's also a WiP with a purpose (WiPwaP?). I don't force myself to write on a schedule so updates will be random but I'm hopeful about getting it done in a reasonable time frame.
> 
> -Because I'm posting as I go there may be chapter edits. I'll make a note in chapter notes as necessary.

**1938 – Poland**

In stories, funerals always seemed to take place beneath low-hanging dark clouds, as if God himself counted among the mourners. Erik Lehnsherr pushed at the sleeves of his suit jacket – still a little too big, purchased as it was for Yom Kippur, three months away– and squinted up at the relentlessly cheery sun. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. His mother’s tasteful black marble headstone winked and glittered in a way that seemed, somehow, obscene.

She was already in the ground, buried beneath black earth Erik himself, along with his father and a few other relatives (the few who had also made it out of Germany), had helped shovel over her. Now the rabbi stood beside the disturbed dirt, reading from Psalms in his pleasant sing-song Hebrew. The words were comfortably familiar – he’d been working hard on his Hebrew lately, at his mother’s request -- and he was sorry when at last the rabbi fell silent, his eyes falling to Erik and his father.

Erik swallowed hard, aware of everyone watching him, and reached for his left breast pocket. He glanced up at his father, who nodded.

“ _Dayan Ha’emet_ ,” Erik called, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice. The rest of the congregation echoed him as he tugged at the pocket. They’d cut it a little before the funeral; it ripped nicely. Looking around at everyone else, all of them with their torn black clothes in this brilliant sunshine, it came to him that his mother really was dead. He had shoveled dirt into her grave; he had ripped his clothes in mourning. There was a finality to all of this that stole his breath away.

His father’s touch, heavy on his shoulder, made him brush the tears from his face and lift his chin in a show of strength. “ _Mein lieber Sohn_ ,” his father murmured, before switching to heavily accented English. “We have no time for tears. You’ve noticed the unrest?”

Erik nodded. Two weeks before a boy had called him a Jew, his tone sneering,and pushed him down; he’d come home sporting a bruised cheek and skinned knuckles.

Erik’s father nodded in turn. “It’s past time we were leaving,” he said quietly, casting a sidelong glance at the congregation. “Tomorrow we take a train to Paris, while we still can. In a few weeks, we sail to America. So no more tears, child, you understand? It is time for you to be a man.”

“Yes, Father,” Erik responded, his accent almost passably English – something he’d picked up at school. He touched the gash in his suit jacket and thought about how he wouldn’t be wearing it for Yom Kippur after all. Even so, it had served its purpose. He felt scrubbed out -- not absolved, perhaps, but made anew. He felt touched by God, awash in awe and terror. He felt incredibly alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**1961 – New York**

Laughter poured from the den and spilled into the hallway where Erik stood, shrouded in shadow. It was him again — the young professor, Xavier. He’d been paying more and more frequent visits; schmoozing with Lehnsherr the senior, head of the science department at the boys’ school where they both worked. How Erik’s father failed to see the transparent flattery for what it was — ladder climbing at its most nauseating — Erik couldn’t imagine.

Willing his face into a mask of polite distance, Erik pushed the door open and stepped inside. The den was cozy, small and comfortably cluttered, the furniture well-appointed, the fire crackling merrily. Lehnsherr the senior was nestled in a plush wingback, a cigar clamped between his teeth and laughter in his eyes that slowly faded as he turned to regard his son. He was a hale man, still firm beneath his sweater despite his age, with a severe voice (made even harsher by the sharpness of his German sounding consonants) and equally stern pale eyes that glared through thick-framed glasses. A simple look from him made one feel smaller; it was a struggle not to visibly shrink beneath that icy gaze. “Father,” Erik said softly. “The telephone.”

Lehnsherr the senior let out a muttered swear and stood, not with the sort of groaning slowness one would expect from a sixty-five year old, but with a sort of swiftness and power that was almost animal in nature. “Charles, I apologize. I should only be a moment.” He glanced up at Erik and snapped, “Take over for me.” He gestured to the chess board set up between him and his guest. “And don’t lose the bloody game in the five minutes I’m gone.” He didn’t wait to see if this was acceptable to either Charles or Erik; he simply swept from the room, brushing Erik aside as he went.

For a moment there was a strange tension in the room. Then Erik looked at his father’s friend for the first time, and the tension…shifted. The boy (perhaps that was unfair; undoubtedly Xavier was only a few years Erik’s junior) was mostly unremarkable. Wavy brown hair, somewhat pathetic beard, full red lips, tweed jacket. He was in a wheelchair, but that was no surprise -- Erik had heard the treads in the hall. It was a sound he’d begun to associate with bitterness. No, none of that was particularly interesting. What attracted Erik — what stunned him into silence rather than the sneered polite remarks he’d been mentally rehearsing — were Xavier’s eyes. Bright, intense, sharply focused on Erik, his eyes belied a clear, cool intelligence, though somehow without the air of judgment one might expect. If Erik felt halved in his father’s eyes, he felt doubled in Charles’. There was something in that glance that suggested power, power that radiated from him so thoroughly that everyone around him was imbued with it. For the first time, Erik wondered whether it was Lehnsherr the senior initiating these get-togethers, rather than the young professor.

“Please,” Charles said warmly, extending a hand, “sit.” His voice was pleasant, his posh English accent a welcome surprise.

Erik shook his hand, then settled uncomfortably into his father’s still-warm chair. “You’re Charles Xavier,” he said, his tone as wary as his posture was stiff. He glanced at the board; Lehnsherr the senior was playing well, though Erik suspected Charles was treating him gently.

“I am.” Shifting awkwardly, Charles cleared his throat. “And you must be Professor Lehnsherr’s son, Erik. He speaks highly of you.” Erik must’ve looked at him strangely, because he quickly corrected himself. “Well, no, he hasn’t spoken of you at all, actually, but I’ve seen you in pictures.” He flicked his wrist towards the painting above the mantle, of Lehnsherr the senior in his wingback and Erik standing behind, both of them looking strained. “The artist did not do you justice.”

Erik lifted an eyebrow at that, but withheld comment. Instead he glanced at the board. “Who’s go?”

“Yours,” Charles replied, settling back in his chair. He picked up a glass of brandy and swirled it in the firelight. “You’re wondering whether I was born this way, or if I had some unfortunate accident,” he said after a moment, a hint of boredom in his voice.

“Actually,” Erik answered, toying with one of the pieces, considering his move, “I was wondering whether my father had served you the nice guest brandy or the cheap swill he drinks before bed.”

To Erik’s surprise, Charles roared with laughter. “It’s a fine vintage,” he smiled, looking at Erik from over the rim. “You’re not even a little bit curious, then? About my legs?”

Erik shrugged and slid his piece forward. “You’re welcome to tell me about it, if you’d like.”

Charles nodded approvingly at Erik’s play, then leaned forward conspiringly. “You’re much better than your father,” he whispered, his smile teasing. His expression grew more serious, though, when he looked at the board. “No, I won’t bore you,” he announced, touching this piece and then that. “I’d much rather talk about you, anyway. What do you do?”

“Nothing,” Erik said flatly, his spine stiffening again.

“Nothing?” Charles looked up, his fingers poised over a rook. “You mean to say that you don’t work? Or attend school? Or…or…?”

“That’s exactly what I mean to say.” Erik’s fingers drummed on the armrest; his leg began to bounce, faster and faster. “I attend parties. I sleep until late afternoon. I smoke. I drink coffee. Occasionally, I go to Europe and party and drink and smoke and sleep away each day in hotels, instead.” All the while, he fixed Charles with a daring look, almost willing him into judgment.

As if he read Erik’s mind, Charles tutted, made his move, and settled back. “What an astounding waste.”

Erik attacked the board, shoving a piece forward. “Says the man who spends all his time toadying to my father.” He crossed his arms, his chin firm and defiant. “Frankly, Mr. Xavier, what I do with my time is none of your business.”

To Erik’s shock, and outrage, Charles laughed. Not just a chuckle, either; he threw back his head and laughed himself red in the face. “Are we on such formal terms now?” he managed, after a moment. He sat forward a little, smiling up at Erik playfully. “Come now, Erik. Let’s be friends, you and I.” He looked down at the board then and shook his head, still grinning. “Ah, see? That was a sloppy move. You’ll have to learn to control that anger of yours.”

What might’ve happened next — Erik was unaccustomed to being laughed at, and it made the blood roar in his ears — was thankfully never given the chance to transpire. Instead, Lehnsherr the senior returned, noting Charles’ smile and the color in Erik’s cheeks with a frown. “I hope my son hasn’t been a bother,” he said, cold eyes narrowed.

“Quite the contrary,” Charles beamed, moving his next piece in such a way that Erik knew he was setting himself up for failure. “He was a pleasure, not to mention an exceptional challenger. Almost as good as you, Professor.”

Lehnsherr the senior scoffed and shooed Erik from his chair. “Taught him everything he knows,” he said, not sparing Erik another glance.

Erik recognized a dismissal when he saw one. He nodded his goodbye at Charles, who smiled widely at him once more. “Erik,” he called, just before Erik could close the door. “You’ll visit with me again next time, won’t you?”

Maybe he was being mocked; maybe he was being flirted with. There was no time to settle on a more appropriate response; Father would never accept rudeness. “Of course, Mr. Xavier,” he said smoothly, not quite meeting the young professor’s eyes. “It would be an honor.”

\---

Xavier was back three times that week, more than ever before, though he and Erik never managed to find another moment alone together. Always Lehnsherr the senior lurked, watching them play chess (once stroking his bottom lip with his thumb and saying, in a very neutral tone, “My dear Xavier, I believe you’ve been letting me win”) or soliloquizing to them at length about the various problems he felt were plaguing the youth of the modern era.

During these long speeches Erik would sit in a small wooden chair just beside Charles, not hearing a word of it, his mind ever focused on the heat that radiated beside him, those brilliant eyes which he felt sneaking glances at him at every stolen opportunity, the slim fingers which tapped lightly at the arm of his wheelchair. Occasionally he would excuse himself and slip to the washroom, drenching his face with cool water and giving himself stern looks in the mirror. It didn’t help. Charles Xavier was a source of almost unbearable torment; his presence was agonizing, his absence worse. What was it about the man that made Erik feel so unsteady? He was good at chess, his laugh was equal parts charming and infectious, and there was something secretive to his smile that left Erik lying awake late into the night… But no, it was something more than that. There seemed to be something terse between them, some grudge Erik found himself clinging to with almost childish desperation, and yet there was also an automatic kinship that had sprung up between them, a feeling that was almost familial, dampened only by the constant company of Lehnsherr the senior. His obvious fondness for Xavier plagued Erik, like a sore tooth he couldn’t help but prod with his tongue. He despised being called to the study; he would’ve fumed, had he been left out.

And all the while Xavier was a perfect gentleman, smiling, friendly, seemingly unaware of his effect.

\---

The following week, Xavier stayed one evening for dinner. It was a pleasant, if mostly quiet, affair. Their silverware clinked, their wine glasses emptied and were filled again, and all the time Erik was conscious of the young professor sitting at his left, making appreciative noises over his steak and always, always glancing at Erik when he thought he could get away with it.

Lehnsherr the senior excused himself for a moment when the meal was almost through. He wasn’t gone more than a single heartbeat before Xavier was leaning towards Erik, his voice conspiratorially low. “You’ve been staring at me,” he murmured, those intense eyes of his flitting across Erik’s face, as though he was using their brief moment alone to memorize every crease.

Erik was taken aback. No one had ever spoken to him so boldly. “You’ve been staring at _me_ ,” he answered lamely, his mouth dry.

Charles grinned, then flicked a glance at the doorway before meeting Erik’s gaze again. He was still smiling, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, seemingly on the cusp of some monumental decision. Then he plunged into it. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, quickly, his voice edged with something dangerous and not just a little thrilling, and then his eyes jumped to the door and his posture immediately straightened, his tone dropping back into pleasant aloofness. “About what your father said, earlier. He’s absolutely right about those Beatles. They’re going to be a terrible influence on the boys at school.”

Lehnsherr the senior nodded approvingly. “Just so, Charles. And another thing--” 

The rest of the meal passed this way, with the two professors chatting away about things Erik couldn’t even pretend to care about. Every once in awhile, though, Charles would steal a quick look at Erik. There was something in those glances, a question Erik couldn’t bring himself to answer. Eventually he set his fork down and excused himself, his stomach twisted into knots so that he couldn’t possibly bring himself to take another bite.


	3. Chapter 3

The house was eerily quiet, in no small part due to the absence of the help, whom Erik always dismissed when Lehnsherr the senior was away. He enjoyed doing the housework himself, liked washing and drying his dishes each night while the radio hummed in the background, liked clipping up wet clothes on the line in the garden and pulling them down later, inhaling their sun-soaked smell. The busy work was charming, in a way, minor stabs at efficiency that disguised the emptiness of his days.

He was doing some of that wonderful busy work now, hoovering the sitting room despite the real lack of need. The repetitive back-and-forth movement and the hum of the machine were satisfying, allowing him to slip into thoughts vague and shadowed.

The sound of the doorbell drew him from his reverie. He frowned in the direction of the foyer, switched off the hoover, and swept his hand through his hair before answering the door.

“Charles?”

The aforementioned young professor beamed at him. “Erik! I hope it’s not a bad time…?” He peered past Erik, evidently expecting an invitation inside. It had been three weeks since they were properly introduced, and this was their first moment alone since.

Erik shifted his stance, unconsciously puffing his chest. “I’m sorry to say you’ve come all this way for nothing,” he said, giving the car at the end of the drive an unfriendly squint. Charles’ driver waved. “My father is away on business.” It struck him, suddenly, that Charles must’ve known this. He and Lehnsherr the senior were associates, after all. He peered down at Charles, aware of how foolish he must’ve looked, how unsettled and topsy-turvy.

Charles looked like the cat who’d got the canary. “More’s the pity,” he grinned, hefting a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. “Even so, perhaps I might come in?”

\---

Despite the early hour – it was only half noon when Charles arrived – they were soon uproariously drunk. Erik was smoking in his father’s den, an act unthought-of in sobriety, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he swayed and fiddled with the record player. “This one, this is the one,” he cheered, transferring his cigarette to his hand and dropping the record player’s needle. The rock record – Bobby Freeman’s “Do You Wanna Dance” – wasn’t Erik’s favorite, but it suited his mood, and when Bobby’s voice came in with the titular line, Erik let his hips shimmy, his feet planted wide --  a drunken take on that party favorite, the Twist.

Charles clapped and laughed so hard that tears shone in his eyes, and Erik reveled in the attention. It was a spectacular feeling, having those sharp blue eyes trained so carefully on his body, feeling them move from his hands to his hips to his face and back again. By the time the number was over he was flushed and breathless, and although it could’ve been from the dancing, Erik knew better. The heat that pooled low in his stomach wasn’t from the alcohol, either. Erik had bedded enough college boys – pretend beatniks living on trust funds and smoking far too many cigarettes – to understand his own inversion. The question was, did Charles? Because there was no question in Erik’s mind that Charles was like him – perhaps worse, preferring to be debauched, like a woman. The mental image made him flush anew: pale, narrow hips clutched in Erik’s broad hands, Charles gasping and wincing, and those eyes….would he keep them open, if Erik demanded it?

Dimly he became aware of the record’s continuing revolutions, filling the air with a soft crackling. He was standing very still; across the room, Charles was regarding him with equal, if drunken, solemnity. “Five years ago I would’ve joined you without hesitation.” Something flashed in his eyes, hot and angry. His hands clutched the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. “I’m not the man I was.”

Erik took a few steps forward. “I never knew that man. You’re not competing with yourself, Charles.” The look on Charles’ face then — small, childish, his mouth twisted into a wobbling frown — made him close the distance between them and drop to his knees before the chair, his hand resting on Charles’ knee. “Not born like this, then?”

Charles shook his head, cleared his throat. “No. A car accident.” Erik waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, and the silence grew uncomfortable and awkward.

“I know what will cheer you,” Erik announced suddenly, his face still hot from drink and their proximity. “But you’ll have to let me push you in your chair.”

Charles was reticent, but finally he nodded, and Erik dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he came down again he was lugging his most prized possession: a portable record player, which he dropped gently into Charles’ lap. “You’ll need to hold this carefully,” he said, unnecessarily. Even so, Charles nodded seriously and tightened his hold on the record player.

Navigating out of the house was easy; traveling down the gravel drive was more interesting. Charles bounced in his chair, waving merrily at his driver (who snoozed in the car, window down, newspaper spread, forgotten, across his chest), and tipping his head up once to give a small but sincere smile to Erik, who didn’t try to stop himself smiling back. Once they got to the grass, and to the well-traveled dirt track Erik had been seeking, the trip was much gentler. It was a lovely day, the sky cloudless and boundless, a perfect example of Indian summer. Erik stopped once to roll up his shirtsleeves, but otherwise the short trip was unimpeded and spent in surprisingly companionable silence. When they rounded a small copse of heady-smelling pine, Charles let out a small gasp. “Oh, Erik, you’re right. This is lovely.”

It was, truly. The little lake where they now found themselves was Erik’s favorite place, the perfect blend of solitude and solidarity with the world around him. The lake itself was small but clear and deep in the middle, enough that he could wade in to his chest. This time of year the water would be shockingly cold, but that didn’t stop Erik from setting the brakes on Charles’ chair and then stripping off his shoes and socks. “You can’t be thinking of going in,” Charles said, his brow furrowed but his eyes dancing with amusement.

If he hadn’t been planning it already, that look would’ve convinced him.

“I am,” Erik smiled, “but not before I get you settled.” He took the portable record player and set it in the grass, then turned to Charles, his hands stretched out invitingly.

Charles eyed him dubiously. “All right,” he said eventually, pulling himself forward a little in his chair. Erik stooped and Charles wrapped an arm around his shoulder, letting out a breath as Erik hoisted him up. He was so light, much lighter than Erik had expected, and his hand felt small where it clutched at his shoulder. Some measure of the heat from earlier returned, settling low in Erik’s stomach, making his mouth go dry as he set Charles gently in the grass beside the record player. They had brought a few records, of course, which Erik retrieved as Charles settled himself.

“You pick,” Erik said, dropping the records on the ground before undoing the top buttons of his shirt. Charles watched for a moment too long, his gaze lingering on Erik’s fingers, before seeming to catch himself and moving studiously to the matter of selecting music. He didn’t glance up again, not even as Erik undid his trousers, but the line of his back was rigid and his jaw was tight, and Erik felt a sort of wild satisfaction in knowing that Charles wanted, more than anything, to look.

For a moment Erik stood, thumbs hooked in the band of his boxer shorts, and then he dropped those too and wandered, casually, to the waterside. With his back turned, he could feel Charles finally glance up, and that glance filled him with something unbearable and warm and strangely needy. He couldn’t help but show off a little, stretching out the muscles in his back before clambering down the rocky edge of the lake and slipping his toes into the water. It was frigid, cold enough to illicit a sharp gasp, and Charles laughed. “Changed your mind, then?”

Erik shot a look over his shoulder, a mistake; as soon as their eyes locked the humor of the situation fled and they were both flushing and self-conscious. Charles turned his concentration back to the record player. Erik’s focus moved back to the water. Minnows wriggled around his toes and fled as he moved further into the water, bracing himself with deep breaths. The cold touched his ankles, his calves, his thighs, making him gasp anew when he slid down to his hips. Now, with some modicum of decency (and with a nice classical piece floating over to him from where Charles lay) he felt comfortable turning around and smiling at Charles, his hands bobbing on the surface of the lake, his stomach pulled in as though he could somehow avoid the cold by shrinking from it.

“You’re a madman,” Charles called, but he was smiling broadly, his own shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and his shoes discarded on the grass beside him. From here it was almost impossible to tell that he’d been crippled; his legs were thin, yes, but his pose was casual and relaxed, some tightness in his shoulders seemingly fled. Perhaps he’d felt Erik needed to see him this way, though Erik couldn’t imagine why. To Erik’s mind the chair was an integral piece of Charles — not the only thing, not even the most important thing, but a truth that was unavoidable and, moreover, not wanting of avoidance. Everything about the Charles who lay in the grass beside the lake, the Charles that Erik was coming to know and desire, was worthy of wonder in every respect. Suddenly Erik couldn’t stand to be alone in that water any longer. He moved, quickly but cautiously, to the shore.

Again Charles respectfully averted his gaze, though the tension between them was obvious. Erik shook himself off like a dog, eliciting a playful cry from Charles, then slipped back into his boxers and trousers. When he bent to retrieve his undershirt, he glanced up and caught Charles watching him, twin roses blooming prettily in his cheeks. This time neither of them looked away. Erik stood slowly, hyperaware of being watched and of the thrumming in his veins, and made a little spectacle of tugging on his t-shirt, his heartbeat wild in his throat. He left the button-up lying in the grass and dropped down beside Charles, sprawling out on his back and folding his arms behind his head. For a moment he was quiet, basking in the warmth of the day and of Charles’ sharp gaze, which he could feel on his body as real and burning as though phantom fingers worked at his skin. After a long moment — the world glowing orange beyond his eyelids — he rolled to his side, propped himself on one elbow, and said, “Tell me something, Charles.”

Charles, as usual, was game. He smiled brightly, wetted his lips, and said, “What would you like to know?”

“Anything,” Erik said, then shook his head and corrected, “No. Something that my father doesn’t know.”

“Ah.” His smile fading (but not disappearing, not entirely), Charles scanned the expanse of blue above them and considered. “Your father doesn’t know I have a sister.”

“He doesn’t?”

“No, he never asked, and I don’t often bring her up. She broke my heart, you see.”

Erik thought he was teasing, but now the smile was entirely washed away, and Charles’ expression had grown distant and serious once more. “Where is she now?” Erik asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Europe, somewhere. We haven’t spoken in a long time.” He shrugged, too casually, and picked at the grass beside him. “I drove her away. Thought I knew what was best for her…” He shook his head and cleared his throat, meeting Erik’s eyes once more. “She’s doing something with the military now, as some sort of private contractor. It’s good for her, or it seems like it anyway. I haven’t made any attempts to reconcile. I just…can’t imagine how to begin.” Somber, a deep furrow between his brows, his lower lip pulled in and worried at – still, Charles was exquisite. Erik had always been drawn to strength; it surprised him that this, Charles’ fragility, had the power to make his breath catch in his throat.

“Stay here tonight,” Erik rushed, too passionately  -- and too soon. Charles’ eyes widened.

“We’ve both had entirely too much to drink,” he said, laughing. “I’m being too morose, and you’re being admirably forward. Even so… perhaps it’s time for me to go home. I’ve been a terrible drain of your time today as it is.”

Rebuffed and embarrassed, Erik stood and yanked on his button-up shirt. “Of course,” he said, somewhat stiffly. “I didn’t--”

 He trailed off, and Charles didn’t make any attempt to finish for him. The sentence hung lamely between them, and then dropped. “Let me help you up,” Erik said at last. When Charles was settled, the record player back in his lap, they pushed back past the stand of trees and out into the grass. Erik found it hard to keep his pace below a sprint.


End file.
